I asked AI for an image to match the words – and I’d say it didn’t do bad
The Everlasting Subplot
Ev’ry movie, ev’ry story, Action, horror, western, crime – Whatever else our heroes do, They have to pair-off two-by-two. Yet even ancients found it hoary, Turning plots to pantomine – That for a tale to really sell, They have to fall in love as well.
It seems no genre is immune, Nor leading man is spared the job – It’s not enough to save the world, They also have to get the girl. And heroines can call the tune, But only with their hearts a-throb – For no adventure’s over till The audience have had their thrill.
I could have been a painter, With an easel and beret – See, I’ve got the temp’rament, And dreaminess, and enchanté. But I haven’t got the talent Or the patience of a saint – Yet I could have been a painter If I never had to paint.
I could have been a sculptor Pulling wishes from the clay, Or a jeweller, or a tailor, Had I diff’rent DNA. For I have an eye for beauty, And a right-brained attitude, But I’m lacking the dexterity To conjure up my mood.
I could have been an author, Building new worlds ev’ry day – But my penmanship’s too cryptic For my words to have their say. So I’m not in any brotherhood Who share philosophies, But I know where I belong, And it’s with people such as these.
I could have been a pianist, To score life’s cabaret, If my fingers would obey me, When I tell them what to play. I’ve always had a poet’s soul, It’s written in my glands – But I cannot hold my destiny Within my clumsy hands.
It isn’t easy being a new-build Here in Dorchester town, With such a shining example besides them, Flaunting its global renown. An over-achieving older-sibling, Rich in charm and style – Well, no wonder the new kids look so miffed, With not a facade with a smile. I guess their neighbour’s one-in-a-million, Bricks of a vanished strain – And that’ll explain why we’re so unable To build so well again… So the latest estates must make-do with bland, With a shrug from the half-arsed and bored, While the decadent suburb that lies to the West Is so desperately ignored.
Thank goodness AI has far more imagination and originality than HAL…
A Space Ploddyssey
As Kubrick prophesised When the ape-men went exploring – Space is vast, and time is slow, And the future will be boring. Red suited, black oblonged, Very very small – Man is dumb when met by wonder, Stanley most of all.
The first three minutes of the movie are a black screen. I’ve heard this described as the ‘overture’, a not-unknown feature of big blockbusters in the Sixties. Thinking about it, this moment does indeed pull together all of the tedium scattered through the film into one masterpiece of Cageian vacuum…
More seriously, there is the interview between the BBC and Frank and I’m-Sorry-Dave. It takes seven minutes for each transmission to travel one way, so the crew give their answer, and have to wait fourteen minutes until they get their reply (plus the time to record the reply, unless it’s being streamed live). Shouldn’t we next see them looking as if they had actually got up and done stuff in those fourteen minutes, rather than look as if we rejoin them five seconds later ? The fact that the film prioritises the suggestion that they are so dull they would happily remain sat in silence than have any moments of – human interaction, work, getting a drink, their hair getting a bit mussed-up, even unintentionally swapping places – says everything about why this film and I can never be friends.
The trouble with a labyrinth, Is that it feels so foreign – Is that it has no logic To its endless winding paths. No hierarchy separating Avenues from warrens, As we trudge the many mazes On our lost and aching calves.
Our only means of finding out The route into the centre Is by choosing random tracks And by try-and-try-again – With a dozen unsigned junctions And a dozen doors to enter, To a dozen cul-de-sacs, And a single golden lane.
It makes sense in a dungeon, With its safety-at-all-cost, Or even on a garden, Where the mapless lovers sally – But why are city planners Quite so keen to get us lost ? Or to meet a Minotaur Down a twisty, unlit alley…?
Is anything more boring Than another psychopath ? He’s the laziest of monsters, That we’re somehow meant to fear. Just a clichéd bogeyman, Who’s killing for a laugh – Ho-hum, the same old slasher Whom they think we’ll dread or cheer.
Is this another true-live nutter, After fame at any price ? And we’re determined to reward them, Cos we’re really dumb. Or is it just a fantasy Of living through their vice ? Getting all our jollies Till our empathy is numb.
The theatre is haunted, of course, Because, well, you know actors… An ingenue, I think, or else a restless dame – Or was the spectral source A longtime patron, or some benefactors Still attending shows just like they always came ? Expectation’s such a force And narratives are such attractors – No stage worth its boards can be without its ghostly claim. The theatre is haunted, of course – That must be the common factor, Why both the roof and the backstage gossip leak-out just the same.
Capitals, corbels, Etchings and baubles, Littered by the sculptors, Foisted by the smiths. Serifs and analogues, Grace notes and shaggy dogs, Wasting their energies With tales and jokes and myths. We tell them ev’ry time That ornament’s a crime – But they keep on disobeying As before. They’ll never realise Till we poke them in the eyes, To teach the little ingrates Less is more.
It’s the silence that hurts the most – When our efforts are all ignored. We’re never told what we’re doing wrong, When our souls are mutely scored. Did I offend you ? Or bore you rigid ? Is my writing just too bleak ? So why can I not find people like me ? Am I really so unique ? I send my children into the void To no reaction at all, Even a groan at least shows you looked – But I just bounce off your wall. And yet, I know that I ignored others When their work neither sang nor stung – I’m just as guilty, crushing their dreams By politely holding my tongue.
Rhyming Couplets 